Chapter 387

Chapter 387: Championship Match

Winning without a fight could be considered Midi’s Overlord-like demeanor.

Just two weeks earlier, he’d been a newly arrived slave in the Wolfspider tribe.

A week ago, he’d barely become a slave warrior.

The day before, he’d ranked last in White Rock Cave.

Yet now, in half a day, he’d forged such a fearsome reputation that even a level 60 dark elf assassin refused to challenge him.

If this wasn’t Overlord-like, then what was?

“My friend, you’ve… truly shocked me,” Zaknavan remarked during the midday break, admiration in his gaze. “I knew you were exceptional during Black Rock’s selection, but never imagined this level of strength. Seems I’ll need to prove myself in the championship too.”

Prove himself?

Midi frowned, puzzled.

Zaknavan noticed but didn’t explain, laughing instead and clapping Midi’s shoulder. “You’ll see soon enough.”

After the points competition, only the top five slave warriors remained. The rest trudged back to White Rock Cave, excluded from both the championship and Wolfspider missions.

For Midi, first or fifth place mattered little—he’d already secured qualification for contribution points. But the others weren’t so indifferent. Blood Hand glared with murderous hatred, while Mason, the dark elf roaming gunslinger, watched with cold intensity. Only Zaknavan lacked hostility.

Retreating now would brand Midi a coward in the Shaded Realm, shattering the awe he’d built. Even mission access wouldn’t shield him from scorn or sabotage. For someone racing to join the Black Dragon Conference, exclusion from dark elf society was unacceptable.

The championship would burn hotter than rankings warranted—old grudges fueled it. Midi’s minor injuries and drained magic were calculated risks, tools to grow stronger. By afternoon’s start, he’d recovered fully: Dark Magic refined, Dragon’s Blood mending every scratch.

This recovery stunned the dark elves. Their “fragile surface human” stereotype crumbled. Now Wolfspider whispers claimed, “Surface humans are monstrous.”

As the cavern’s four magic lamps shifted hue, signaling afternoon, the championship began.

Despite nearly 90% of slave warriors being eliminated until only five remained, the championship matches became the true highlight. This drew more Wolfspider tribe members to the stands. Several elders and priestesses arrived, accompanied by young dark elves trailed by instructors ready to offer advice. At this stage of selection, every battle served as Experience for the tribe rather than mere entertainment.

The rules shifted to knockout format. With five participants, each draw granted one contestant a bye – considered the lucky guy. The remaining pairs fought until victors emerged. Subsequent draws repeated this until the final match.

The first round’s outcome gave top-ranked Mason the bye. Zaknavan faced Mason’s partner, another dark elf roaming gunslinger, while Midi’s opponent became Blood Hand.

"First match – Midi versus Blood Hand!" the judge shouted.

Initially, no dark elf bothered remembering "Midi," simply calling him "human." But as his power grew, this casual disrespect faded. Experts deserved names, not labels. Hearing his name formally used for the first time, Midi noted it took only seventeen days – an acceptable pace. His endurance through slave humiliation finally bore fruit.

"You’ll regret smiling, human!" Blood Hand growled in the arena, gaze darkening. "You’ll pay the cost!"

"Winners live, losers die. Ice Hand tried killing me, so I killed him. Want revenge? Try." Midi’s steady reply carried ironclad certainty. "But you can’t defeat me."

No bluster colored his words – just facts. Defeating a half-giant proved Midi’s physical power surpassed this Demon Swordsman’s. Beating Ice Hand demonstrated superior magic power and purity. Only speed remained untested, yet Midi feared no rivals there. How could any ordinary Demon Shadow Step match his Demon Shadow Flash?

Though Midi meant only to provoke, Blood Hand sneered. "I admit your strength… but victory requires more than that!" The utterly calm tone carried bone-chilling hostility.

Blood Hand roared suddenly. Muscles bulged grotesquely, height increasing by half a foot as rancid bloody mist shrouded his body. Berserker skill "Blood Frenzy"?

In Midi’s mind, the first skill that surfaced was Blood Frenzy, but he immediately dismissed the thought. Though this skill sacrificed defense and burned life force for power, it couldn’t possibly cause such drastic physical changes or exaggerated power surges.

"It’s an ancient secret medicine," Rot’s voice resonated in Midi’s mind. "The greatest heritage of the Shaded Realm is Dark Dragon City. Many alchemy formulas using Dragon’s Blood as raw materials supposedly originated there. This is one of them—the lowest tier, likely Blood Dust potion."

"What does it do?" Midi pressed.

"Twice as potent as Blood Frenzy. At minimum." Rot answered flatly, his tone laced with disdain. "This fool’s using it perfectly. His current strength makes him barely worthy as your Grinding Stone."

"Agreed." Midi’s dual swords hummed faintly, vibrating with thirst for battle.

Yet when the frenzied Blood Hand swung his longsword, Midi abruptly sensed unprecedented danger. His eyes caught a faint white glow clinging to the Sword Edge—unremarkable as dim fluorescence, yet reeking of lethality.

Poison!

Midi instantly discarded his counterattack strategy, dissolving into black smoke to evade the strike.

"What’s wrong? No more head-on clashes, human whelp?" Blood Hand roared, venom dripping from his words.

Midi remained silent, cold obsidian eyes locked on his opponent. Using Blood Dust potion already skirted the rules, but applying poison crossed into absolute cheating. The selection aimed to identify experts, not host death matches. The Wolfspider tribe would never permit toxins that might kill stronger fighters. Besides, poisons could be slipped into food—slave warriors carrying such substances would transform White Rock Cave’s safe haven into a slaughterhouse.

Clearly unhinged, Blood Hand now recklessly combined secret medicine with poisoned weapons, hellbent on murder. Facing this deranged opponent, continuing practice was impossible. Midi preferred not exposing his trump card—stopping the match made sense.

Yet before he could speak, Rot’s voice cut through his thoughts: "Don’t halt it."

"Oh?" Midi’s eyebrow twitched as he swallowed his words.

"That poison’s brewed from Mirage Grass juice," Rot explained tersely. "No time for details. Just know this—Mirage Grass holds abundant Radiance of Darkness. Refined, its juice equals Radiance of Light crystals from the Sea of Clouds."

Radiance of Darkness crystals?

Radiance of Darkness crystals!

Radiance of Darkness crystals!!

Midi’s eyes blazed with twin emerald flares—the hungry gleam of a wolf spotting fresh meat.